A Nigerian's journey to Europe becomes a test of faith and ambition

Countless Christian songs extol the ability of God, but the melody that constitutes the soundtrack of my childhood is the one that my mother, a gospel guitarist, sang when her faith touched the most difficult shores: “If you have tried everything and everything has failed … You know that God can… test Jesus.”

Their melodies came back to me as I read Samuel Kọ́láwọlé’s debut novel, “The Road to the Salt Sea,” which follows the story of Able God, an ambitious Nigerian disillusioned with his stagnant life. He becomes embroiled in a crime that sends him into the clutches of a charismatic religious leader who promises impoverished Lagos residents better-paying jobs in Italy. As Able God and his fellow migrants embark on this journey, there is a sense that what awaits them might be even more treacherous than the realities they are leaving behind. This harrowing migration story wrestles with themes of family pressure, personal ambition, modern slavery, religion, and that ever-prevailing Western insistence on positive manifestation—a self-help philosophy that can seem disconnected from the horrors of war and other calamities.

Featuring a third-person narrator, the book begins as a thriller (Able God hides and heals a wound) before the narrative quickly flashes back to the events leading up to this fateful moment. Able God, 32, college-educated, is not living the life his mother had envisioned for him when she gave him such an ambitious name. He is stuck in a dead-end job at a luxury hotel in Lagos, where the glass walls, glittering chandeliers and spacious lobby contrast starkly with his one-bedroom apartment with no electricity.

A deeply religious woman who weaves together her Yoruba traditions and her Christian faith, Able God's mother chides him: “Do you want to serve others for the rest of your life?”

Although he has long since strayed from his religious upbringing, Able God is as idealistic as his mother; He is simply tied to another form of faith: the self-help books whose affirmative phrases he repeats as if they were proverbs.

Determined to “think” his way to manifesting the life he dreams of (world-renowned chess player or wealthy business magnate), he flashes his “hundred-watt toothpaste ad” smile to guests every day. from the hotel, wealthy people who he believes could help catapult him to a better future. But Able God also resents the way some of the travelers treat hotel workers and other working-class residents of Lagos. “How had he acquired his wealth?” Able God wonders about a guest named Dr. Badero. “He was sure that he had built his wealth with the blood, sweat and labor of the powerless.”

Able God and his coworkers witness all kinds of outrageous behavior from privileged guests, but when Dr. Badero turns violent against a sex worker who lives in Able God’s neighborhood, Able God can’t turn a blind eye. “He had known men like Dr. Badero all his life, men who dominated women and hurt them. Men who thought sexual conquest was a God-given right.” Such an assessment could be gleaned from these fictional pages and transferred to recent news stories chronicling the actions of powerful men.

Obsessed with saving the woman he believes is in danger, Able God finds himself embroiled in a crime from which no amount of affirmation or prayer can rescue him. A religious leader promoting migration to Italy promises that the trip is “free” and that they can pay for it later with their jobs. This snake oil salesman’s name is Ben Ten (after the cartoon character from the eponymous TV series, who has the ability to transform into different aliens).

As he endures an increasingly difficult journey, Able God relies on self-help mantras as he feels control over his destiny slipping away from him. “Enjoy the journey on the way to your destination,” he reminds. However, this journey is not only not pleasant, it threatens the lives of migrants as they cross border checkpoints filled with corrupt soldiers, trudge through the unforgiving Sahara, face hunger and thirst, and enter a part of Libya still reeling from civil war. “We are close to the Promised Land,” Ben Ten tells them after weeks of travel, but after his announcement comes a dramatic turning point that plunges the migrants into human trafficking, slavery and even more serious violence.

In his collection of essays, “How to Write About Africa,” the late Kenyan author and journalist Binyavanga Wainaina wrote satirically about journalists and authors who treat one of the world's most diverse continents as if it were a monolith. “Treat Africa as if it were one country,” he advised wryly. “It's hot and dusty, with rolling grasslands, huge herds of animals, and tall, thin people who are starving. …Don’t get stuck with precise descriptions.”

In “The Road to the Salt Sea,” you’ll find hunger, power dynamics inherent in class systems, the aftermath of war—but the novel is proof that when a writer dares to tackle these themes, stereotypes can be dismantled through specificity, by portraying characters as whole beings. With her attention to detail and rich elaboration of an inner life for Able God, Kọ́láwọlé gives us a masterclass in sensorial writing (engaging all five senses in ways that both repel and delight). She subtly weaves history into her narrative and balances her main character’s inner life with the chaos of the external world. “These children lacked guardians and lived in poverty, but they also had freedom.”

in a interview In an article published in the Hopkins Review, Kọ́láwọlé, who was born and raised in Ibadan, about 130 kilometers north of Lagos, says her greatest wish is for her writing to “touch the hearts of my readers.” In “The Road to the Salt Sea,” she grabs us by the neck, the gut, and the heart. At times, the suspense is absorbing; at others, one heartbreaking scene after another overwhelms us. Yet the novel reminds us that even in calamitous times, the search for meaning and purpose continues, despite the ways in which mantras can prove insufficient, biblical messages can confuse, and false prophets and preachers sell to desperate and vulnerable people.

During a stopover in Niger, Able God wanders through a place of worship “burned to ashes” in what he believes was the result of religious unrest. “Could God inhabit something so charred and ruined?” he wonders. Able God is no saint, but his struggle for physical survival – and even his ability to hold on to a shred of optimism in the face of atrocities – is testament to the tenacity of the human spirit.

Cassandra Lane is the author of an autobiography, “We Are Bridges,” editor-in-chief of LA Parent, and contributor to the anthology “Writing the Golden State: The New Literary Terrain of California.”